We arrived to Ho Chi Minh City after midnight, hoping both of us would leap through the border hoops. The rules of entry felt arbitrary, strict, but I'm a big fan of checklists and I made damn sure all of the boxes were ticked. The humidity engulfed us as the exit doors parted, steadying ourselves to an audience of amused locals waiting for loved ones. We arranged for an airport pickup but my name-as-sign was nowhere to be found. The time crept towards 2am and the mental fog was upon us - failed attempts at roam-phoning the hotel netted us a helpful liar who called the hotel for us and translated that our ride wasn't coming so we should pay him instead. I snatched his phone from his hands to be told the driver had indeed been sent out over an hour ago and we must just be bad at exiting airports. After being reassured more wheels were on the way I noticed the familiar logo of Uber on the tout's phone and we sat in defeated silence, waiting. Seconds after giving up a young man with sleep in his eyes ran toward the crowd, my name waving in his hand. We jumped in his car featuring a cheetah fur dashboard adorned with patron saints - the fact the driver seat was completely prone confirmed our driver was fast asleep while we sat stewing.
Sleepy Cheetah Enterprises darted through empty streets, giving us glimpses of what would await us in the morning. As we pulled closer to our hotel the scene went full-on Jersey Shore - drunks of all shapes and sizes and shades of white blocking our way, stumbling and wooing and filling incredibly cheesy bars, ripe chum for the bar girl bar sharks. Our driver pulled over and pointed to a dark hotel in the midst of this madness. The cheery front-desk attendant was in far better shape than we, informing us that our parents called and said they were worried. I cringed at the distance between his joke and my reality, wondering if I'd ever sleep again. The Duc Vuong hotel was much-adored by the internet and central to everything, confirmed by our well-above-suitable room and super-helpful staff. We HAD to know what our nights would bring, so we walked down our street through the muck of Backpackers Gone Wild. Immediately the shouting started, of "happy hour here" and "come drink with us", hundreds of eyes eyeing us up, my own gaze fixated on the most beautiful shapes in sight - those voluptuous food stands on wheels. I was in love with them all: bowls of raw meat in wait, soft mangoes stacked high, noodles just begging to be boiled.
COCAINE!
A little old man shadowed Mr. M for blocks, resorting to repetition once COCAINE! didn't get the results he was after.
MARIJUANA? COCAINE! COCAINE! COCAINE! COCAAAAAAAINE!
As tempting as five years in prison for possessing drain cleaner is, we managed to resist his suave sales pitch, break our large bills against some well-earned cold beers to take back to the hotel, and fell into our beds as if they were our saviors.
Hong Kong was the predictable, boring, buckled-up businessman. This, my friends, is bat country.
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